


you got me (and i get you)

by middyblue (daisyblaine)



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Canon Compliant, Hurt/Comfort, Introspection, M/M, POV Outsider, POV Stevie Budd, Post-Canon, Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:48:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28248633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daisyblaine/pseuds/middyblue
Summary: David has to go out of town and recruits Stevie to look after Patrick, who copes with it alarmingly similar to how Johnny did when Moira was in Bosnia (i.e., not well). David's dealing with his mom; Patrick's dealing with David being gone; Stevie's dealing with the two of them.
Relationships: Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose, Stevie Budd & Patrick Brewer
Comments: 63
Kudos: 221





	you got me (and i get you)

**Author's Note:**

> Title comes from Noah's song "[Got You](https://youtu.be/uBpL2_z-sbU)." I was in the middle of writing something else without a lot of Stevie in it and she kept popping up in my head, so here we are! This is my first time using a skin for texts, which was an Adventure. 
> 
> Content warning for non-disordered food issues (see end note for details).

Because it’s seven o’clock in the goddamn morning and she didn’t manage to fall asleep until two, Stevie answers her phone without opening her eyes or lifting her head off the pillow. 

“How is it that you’re in another country and somehow you’re annoying me even more than usual?” she says, her voice creaky with exhaustion. 

“I just talked to Patrick and he said he was doing fine but I’m pretty sure he was lying. Can you please check on him today?” David asks anxiously. “Just, like, hang out with him.” 

“You do it.” 

“Okay, Stevie, get up. Get up, get up, get up.” 

“I hate you.” 

“Please just go make sure he’s not, like, up on the roof of the Apothecary cleaning out the gutters in his pajamas.” 

“He wouldn’t do that,” Stevie says, reluctantly sitting up, her eyes still closed. She’d been having a stress dream about David’s return flight crashing. She kept waking up from it and rolling over to try to sleep again, only to fall back into it over and over. 

“He literally did that the last time I was in New York and he had to stay behind to watch the store. _Roland_ had to talk him down.” 

“Oh, yeah. Wait, why do we let Patrick be the responsible one of the three of us? He’s a mess.” 

“Stevie.” 

“I’m up! I’m up." She puts her phone on speaker so she can get dressed. "Wow, when they say you marry your father, they really mean it.” 

“Ew. What?” 

“Your dad,” she yells at the phone as she hops a little to do up her zipper. “Your dad was exactly like that when your mom was in Bosnia.” 

“Gross. Are you dressed yet?” 

“I have pants on.” They’re her loosest jeans and she’s not exactly wearing a bra under her shirt, but it counts as clothes. She switches her phone back to its normal mode and goes to hunt down her bag. It's still _dark_ outside; this is inhumane. 

“Okay. Progress. Alexis can't make it but Dad’s flight from LAX gets in at five tonight and then I’m on the redeye back home.” 

“Is that five your time or ours? Or his?” 

“I don’t even know. Time is a watery illusion to me at this point and I’ve given up trying to grasp it.” 

Since David’s not here physically, she has to pull her phone away from her ear and make a face at it instead. It’s much less satisfying. 

“All I know is that he has to be here before I have to leave for the airport, which is in… how many hours?” he asks, his voice fading like he pulled the phone away to ask someone there. “We don’t know.” 

“Well, good. Knowing your limitations is the first step to conquering them. How’s your mom doing?” 

On the other end of the line, a door shuts and the ambient noise is muffled. 

“She’s trying to be herself and all that entails and she's driving the nurses _and me_ nuts, but I think she’s scared. They’re saying they’ll have to put pins in after all and they have to put her under for that. They’re going to start prepping soon but I’m hoping to the great pizzamaker in the sky that Dad gets here before then, because I can’t — I can’t.” His voice breaks and goes quiet and small and it’s so un-David that she drops the shit. 

“I’m sorry, David. I wish I could be there.” 

Dumb, dumb; obviously David wishes _Patrick_ could be there in London with him while his mom’s in the hospital. 

It’s just a broken leg due to a stunt accident on the set of her new movie, but he’d flown out immediately once they’d realized that Mr. Rose couldn’t get a flight out of L.A. any sooner than today, and even their pooled funds couldn’t justify buying another last-minute round-trip international ticket for Patrick. 

There’s a long pause. Stevie turns onto the main road and can see the Apothecary in the distance, its lights on even this early, a lonely beacon in the empty square. God, these two. 

“I have to go,” David says reluctantly. “I’m not supposed to be on my phone and I’m getting some _very_ ugly looks from the nurses. Also, my mom’s having me call the producers every half hour to demand that they not replace her with Sarah Paulsen while she recuperates.” 

“Wow, she’d be great in that role.” 

“Not helpful, Stevie.” 

“Sorry.” 

She wishes he had someone better at this to be his friend, someone who knows the right things to say and do; someone who would’ve been at their house bright and early with coffee, someone who would’ve thought to sit with Patrick so he wasn’t all alone in the dark, missing David. 

“I’ll talk to you later. Let me know how he’s doing, okay?” 

“David, I….” 

“I know,” David says quietly. “Thanks.” 

As she approaches the Apothecary she can see Patrick through the windows, using one of those long swiffer things to dust the tops of the shelving units. She takes a fortifying breath and pushes the door open. He looks up at the bell, surprised. His usual blue collared shirt is off by a button. 

“So what exactly is the difference between bitcoin and the stock market?” she asks without preamble, dropping her bag behind the register. 

“What?” He’s _adorable_ when he’s confused; he always looks a little upset with it, like a kid who's angry that something doesn’t make sense. “Stevie, what are you doing here?” 

“I’m getting financial advice from my financial advisor. What does it look like?” 

“I’m not your financial advisor,” he says, frowning, but he stops swiffering. Win. 

“Of course you are. You told me to open a savings account.” 

“Stevie. Everyone should have a savings account. That’s just common sense.” 

“Uh huh. So, bitcoin: what’s the deal? How does that work? Is it online banking? Is it like Sims money?” 

Patrick’s mouth tilts down on one side and she can make out dark shadows under his eyes, like he slept even worse than she did. 

“You don’t have to do this,” he says, but his eyes are big and sad like a cartoon character. She takes pity on him and unbuttons his misaligned shirt. It probably says something about their boundaries that he doesn’t ask what she’s doing and just watches her rebutton it correctly. 

“I’m just hanging out with my friend.” 

“Don’t you have to work the desk at the motel?” 

“Like many businesses, including yours, the front desk doesn’t open until nine in the morning.” 

“Stevie, I’m fine. You don’t have to babysit me just because David’s away.” 

“You’re swiffering at half past seven where no one will ever, ever see.” 

“I’m keeping busy. It’s good to keep busy.” 

“You can admit that you miss him.” 

“I’m fine,” he says, but he starts swiffering again. Shit. 

“Patrick. Pat. Buddy. Pal.” 

“God, Stevie. Please, just — leave me alone.” 

“Do you really want that?” she asks, firmly ignoring the swoop of shame in her stomach, the one that says _They don’t need you anymore._ She leans against the cash counter and folds her arms. He hangs his head. 

“No, I’m sorry. I just didn’t really sleep well last night.” 

“No kidding. Please tell me you at least didn’t try to buy a ticket to London in the middle of the night.” He winces. She’s going to need so much caffeine. “Come on, I want a coffee as big as my head and we can send David an update.” 

He actually smiles a little, a ghost of amusement. 

“Yeah, okay.” 

She successfully bullies him into paying for their coffee at the cafe, because that’s the strength of her friendship. 

“So what will he hate the most?” she asks when they’re in their usual booth, pulling up the group text thread. The table feels too big without David but she’s pushing past it. 

Patrick’s mouth wobbles. Jesus Christ, this man. 

“I don’t want to bug him. If Mrs. Rose is — and I’m stuck here, I — I don’t want to bug him.” 

“Okay. We’ll send him a not-annoying update for when he has a break at the hospital and can check his phone, letting him know not to worry about you because you are alive and functioning and being fed.” 

“Am I being fed? I don’t _see_ food.” He makes a dickish show of looking around their table, which does only have their coffees on it. 

She rolls her eyes, snaps a picture of him frowning exaggeratedly at his coffee, and sends it to the chat. 

David & Patrick  
  
**Today** 7:43 AM [IMG_313]  
Your husband is guilting me into feeding him  
_Your husband is guilting me into feeding him_ , she adds.  


“Stevie,” Patrick complains. “I don’t want to stress him out while he’s worried about his mom.” 

“Hey, Twyla?” she calls, ignoring him. “Can we get two stacks of pancakes and extra bacon?” 

“This is so unnecessary,” Patrick says. “I can feed myself.” 

“Have you actually eaten anything since David left yesterday?” she asks, suspecting the answer. He darts his eyes to the side. “Uh huh. You’re having pancakes.” 

“We were supposed to get sushi last night,” Patrick says, staring down at his silent phone. “He promised me that Elm County didn’t have any that he would be impressed by and I was going to try to get him to admit that he was wrong.” 

“That is some potent flirting material.” 

He laughs once, humorlessly. "I guess I forgot to eat without him." 

Twyla brings their food over, and when Patrick has his plate in front of him she takes the picture before he can argue. 

David & Patrick  
  
**Today** 7:43 AM [IMG_313]  
Your husband is guilting me into feeding him  
**Today** 7:57 AM [IMG_314]  
Progress pics incoming  
She adds, _Progress pics incoming._  


“You are not going to send him a picture of every bite I take," Patrick says grumpily. 

“Duh. But I will send him the evidence when you’re done, so eat everything or else I’ll tell David.” 

“You’re a cruel friend, Stevie Budd,” he complains, but he eats his pancakes. He does eat them slowly and robotically like he has to think about every bite, but by the time the cafe is full of the morning crowd his plate is more or less empty. 

“Good job,” she says approvingly. He waves a hand at her phone. 

“Okay, go ahead. Tell David I ate.” 

She stuffs another bite of pancake into her mouth and takes the picture; he clearly tries to smile but it’s a half-smile at best. It's like the saddest (and only) time-lapse series she's ever taken. 

David & Patrick  
  
**Today** 7:43 AM [IMG_313]  
Your husband is guilting me into feeding him  
**Today** 7:57 AM [IMG_314]  
Progress pics incoming  
**Today** 8:24 AM [IMG_315]  
Mission accomplished  
_Mission accomplished_ , she captions it. 

After breakfast, she “helps” Patrick open the store, but then Patrick gives her enough dirty looks while he’s actually helping customers that she figures she should probably go do her own job. 

This job she’s been paid an insane amount of money to do; it makes her _itch_ just thinking about it. 

Really, truly, she’d gone over to David and Patrick’s house one evening after she’d been sitting at the motel desk for hours just staring at her bank account and the motel’s books, trying to figure out how to justify that she deserves this paycheck. 

She’d arrived at the cottage in a panic, breathing shallowly, and they’d sat her down at their dinner table and offered her their leftovers and talked her through what she’s going to do next: namely, her job, as well as she can, because that’s all she can do and clearly she’s earned it, according to the two of them. 

David controlled the music and made sure there was wine and food and Patrick talked her through how she might want to consider managing her personal finances now that there are finances to manage, with the occasional surprisingly helpful input from David, and by the time she left she did feel more settled and less like she was about to fly out of her skin. 

Still, though, she can’t but think that surely someone will wake up and go, _Hang on. We don’t need_ three _Rosebud Motel Group employees on this. Let’s just keep the profitable ones_ , like Johnny Rose who ran a motherfucking international company for years or Roland Schitt who invested a shitton of his own money into the group. 

She wastes some time checking in guests and cleaning rooms, but then she’s sitting behind the desk again, staring at the new hospitality bookkeeping software Mr. Rose had her buy now that they can afford it, and trying to figure it out. She’s not accomplishing much besides a headache, so she texts David out of habit before she remembers that he probably can't respond and that she'd more or less agreed that she wouldn't bug him. 

David  
  
**Today** 12:57 PM This hospitality software is impossible  
Do you think it's too late for me to quit my job and move to the Galapagos with Ted?  
_This hospitality software is impossible. Do you think it’s too late for me to quit my job and move to the Galapagos with Ted?_

She folds her legs underneath her on the chair and experiments clicking through random menus to see what’s there. 

To her surprise, her phone buzzes with his reply not long after; she feels a rush of relief that she hadn't expected, having his voice in her hand. In her defense, David's presence is very rarely _calming_. 

David  
  
**Today** 12:57 PM This hospitality software is impossible  
Do you think it's too late for me to quit my job and move to the Galapagos with Ted?  
**Today** 1:12 PM Reunions with Alexis would be far too awkward to make it worth it  
And ps, you're smart and capable and if you just wait for me to get back we can mess with it together  
And then call Patrick to come fix it and teach you the ropes.  
Kinky  
Will he be bringing his own? I demand silk.  
Excuse me, we have an agreement that you're not allowed to hit on my husband if I'm not there to see his face and laugh.  
_Reunions with Alexis would be far too awkward to make it worth it._ She sighs and rests her chin on her folded knee. _And PS, you’re smart and capable and if you just wait for me to get back we can mess with it together and then call Patrick to come fix it and teach you the ropes._ _Kinky,_ she texts back. _Will he be bringing his own? I demand silk._ _Excuse me, we have an agreement that you’re not allowed to hit on my husband if I’m not there to see his face and laugh._

She snorts and closes out of the program. She doesn’t need to figure it out today. 

Her phone buzzes again as she's opening Solitaire and she very nearly doesn't check it, but then figures that she doesn't want to give David leverage for life if it turns out to be a Mrs. Rose-related emergency. To her surprise, it's not him. 

Ronnie  
  
**Today** 1:20 PM Walked past the Apothecary just now and the kid is arguing with someone who looks important. You might want to check on him. DON’T tell him I sent you. _Ronnie: Walked past the Apothecary just now and the kid is arguing with someone who looks important. You might want to check on him. DON’T tell him I sent you._

“Fuck,” she says out loud, and grabs her bag and the _Back in 15 minutes_ sign. She texts David as she goes, barely missing walking right into a guest on her way through the parking lot. People really need to look where they're going. Hm. _Other people_ , she amends. 

David  
  
**Today** 1:13 PM Will he be bringing his own? I demand silk.  
Excuse me, we have an agreement that you're not allowed to hit on my husband if I'm not there to see his face and laugh.  
**Today** 1:21 PM Do you have an important vendor coming by the store? Just got a very concerned text from RONNIE.  
_Do you have an important vendor coming by the store? Just got a very concerned text from RONNIE._

Her phone buzzes continuously with several replies in a row as she’s heading into the square, which is slightly alarming considering David's policy on spam-texting. 

David  
  
**Today** 1:21 PM Do you have an important vendor coming by the store? Just got a very concerned text from RONNIE.  
**Today** 1:26 PM FUCK I FORGOT  
FUCK  
STEVIE  
Stevie PLEASE I promised that guy we’d take a look at his raw milk because apparently my dad owes him (?????) and I just wanted him to go away  
I love Patrick but he’s too nice for this  
Tell Darren whatever to fuck off  
Stevie please  
_FUCK I FORGOT. FUCK. STEVIE. Stevie PLEASE I promised that guy we'd take a look at his raw milk because apparently my dad owes him (?????) and I just wanted him to go away. I love Patrick but he's too nice for this. Tell Darren whatever to fuck off. Stevie please_

She hurries up the road to the Apothecary, cursing at David and not running because she has _some_ dignity and also she’s still not wearing a bra, and when she gets to the square she can hear yelling coming from the store. 

Fuck. There’s a small crowd gathered outside the cafe, clearly eavesdropping on calm-cool-collected Patrick losing it on this poor guy who, yes, may be trying to blackmail him into selling something illegal. 

_You owe me_ , she types, and then deletes it. She might be maturing. She’s trying to be better, at least; if David can be mature enough to get married and buy a house, she can try to not be a dick when his mom’s in the hospital. 

David  
  
**Today** 1:26 PM Stevie please  
**Today** 1:28 PM I will take care of this  
Don't worry  
Who are you and what have you done with Stevie  
  
_I will take care of this_ , she texts. _Don't worry._ He replies immediately with _Who are you and what have you done with Stevie_. She sends him a middle-finger emoji and puts her phone in her pocket.

Neither of them look up from their standoff when she dings through the door, but Patrick eyes flick towards her when she goes to stand next to him, a little out of breath from the most exercise she's attempted in... a while. 

“Hi, what’s going on?” she says in the most pleasant voice she can muster. It tastes like one of David’s sugary drinks that makes her teeth hurt. 

“Who are you?” the guy asks, his upper lip curling in a sneer, his greasy hair shining under the overhead lights. It's a rare moment, but she wishes David were here, just to witness him destroy this person. 

She exchanges a quick glance with Patrick, who looks both harried and exhausted enough to keel over like he did after the last Cabaret show. 

To be fair, they both did, but luckily David’s disgruntlement at losing the both of them to hours-long naps was softened by the warm glow of the newly engaged, or whatever. Obsessive perusal of wedding websites, maybe. Same thing. 

“I’m Stevie, Patrick and David’s business consultant.” 

Patrick’s eyebrows tick up the barest amount but he holds it together. The douchebag eyes her flannel disdainfully and she tilts her chin up at him, daring him to say something. 

“Is everything okay? Is there something you need my input on?” 

“We’re fine,” Patrick says stiffly. “We’ve decided that Darren’s product is not a good fit for our store and he’s going to be on his way.” 

“Am I correct in assuming that the Rose Apothecary is linked with an Alexis Rose or a Johnny Rose?” Darren Whatever says douchebaggily. 

“Why do you ask?” Stevie folds her arms. Goddamn it, Alexis. 

“Because we agreed when I sold them half a dozen units of my product at a discounted rate that there would be future business with their family.” 

God _damn_ it, Alexis. 

“Do you have that in writing?” She stares him down, not blinking. 

His weak little chin wavers for just a second. 

“Please, just go,” Patrick says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We’re not doing business with you.” 

Darren Whatever sniffs and stalks out the door, slamming it behind him. Patrick slumps onto the display table behind him and buries his face in his hands. 

“Hey,” Stevie says, alarmed. She hovers her hand over his shoulder but doesn’t touch him; she’s not that kind of person and it would be weird for both of them. “It’s fine. He’s gone.” 

“How pathetic is this? I’m an adult, for god’s sake. I own a business and I can’t tell one idiot to get out of my store?” 

“You miss your husband,” she says awkwardly. “You’re having an off day.” She’s _definitely_ not the person for this conversation, but he looks up at her with wet eyes and her heart aches vicariously, which is stupid. Emotions are stupid. 

“I just — I didn’t realize how hard it would be, being here while he’s there in another _country_ , and he can’t _call_ me and tell me if something’s wrong or —” 

Oh god. She pats his back twice and that seems to be enough for him to start to pull himself together, his shoulders evening out under his shirt. She wonders how much of that goddamn button-up is armor on a regular basis, his version of David’s sweaters or her flannels. 

"Did Alexis really promise that guy that we'd do business with him?" Patrick asks weakly. 

"I don't know the details, but there was a brief period of time when Mr. Rose almost went into the raw milk business. And, I mean, it's Alexis." 

“Right. And who, uh, who told you about —” He points at the door. “Oh, god, if it was Ronnie —” 

“I think it’s better if you don’t know,” she says, as kindly as she’s capable. He groans and rubs his face, and it’s too much; she has to get them out of here. “Alright. Have you had lunch yet? I’m starving.” 

“You don’t have to keep feeding me.” 

“Apparently I do, because it’s two in the afternoon and I strongly suspect that the last thing you ate was a plate of pancakes six hours ago.” 

“You’re the worst,” he complains, but he follows her out the door. 

“I know. It’s my cross to bear.” 

The crowd outside the cafe (fuck, she forgot about that) seems to realize that the drama is over and reluctantly disperses, but luckily Patrick doesn’t notice. She glares at some of them as they walk past and it marginally makes her feel better. 

Their usual booth is still empty despite the midday rush, and Twyla winks at Stevie as she brings over some menus. 

Patrick sits and shreds a napkin, his leg jigging next to Stevie’s under the table. He keeps tapping his phone to wake the screen, but there’s no message waiting. 

When Twyla comes by again to take their orders, she stops and gives Patrick’s pile of confetti an anxious smile. 

“Wow, you really made quick work of that,” she says. “Lots of little pieces.” 

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” Patrick says, horrified. “I’m so sorry, Twyla. I’ll — shit.” His attempt at swiping them into the palm of his hand sends them fluttering to the floor. 

“Don’t worry about it,” she says, but her forehead is creased. “I’ll clean it up.” 

“No, I’m sorry,” he says as she walks away. “Fuck.” 

“Would we file this under vandalism or littering?” Stevie asks thoughtfully. 

He groans and drops his forehead to the table. “There’s something sticky here,” he mutters, not moving. Stevie wrinkles her nose. 

“I’d take a picture but I don’t think David needs evidence of this. This is a low point.” 

He sits up again and scrubs a hand across his face. “How is this happening? I’m in my thirties, for fuck’s sake. We go on vendor trips alone all the time! I lived for thirty years without David and I was _fine_.” 

“Were you, though? I mean, you must’ve had some brain damage or emotional trauma to find that attractive.” 

“Hey, you did too.” 

“Point.” She kicks his ankle. “You married him, though. On _purpose_.” 

“Yeah.” His face _blooms_ and it’s disgusting. 

“Stop doing that.” She kicks him again. “Your face is so gross. Your love is so gross.” Patrick laughs but then his mouth turns down again, worried. 

“Do you think he’s okay? Have you talked to him?” 

“A quick call this morning and he’s texted a few times. I don’t think he’s allowed to be on his phone in the ward.” 

“Yeah, same,” Patrick says. “He sent me his flight information. I think he might be heading to the airport soon.” 

“Oh, good.” She strongly suspects that David’s approach to airport timing is very different from Patrick’s, but gracefully doesn’t say so. “He’ll be home tonight and then you can smother him with your gooey crap and leave me alone.” 

Patrick opens his phone app, pulls up David’s number, and then shakes his head and turns off the display. He does this three times. Stevie seriously debates confiscating his phone, but that seems a little heartless. 

Twyla brings their sandwiches over and Patrick apologizes a thousand more times and nearly fights her physically for the broom to clean up his mess. 

“Here’s a business question,” Stevie says, casting around for something to distract him with. “Why don’t they just print more money?” 

“What?” He gives her a wonderfully baffled look. 

“I mean, it’s printed, not mined. Why not just make more? Give it to people who need it so they can buy things?” 

“Are you serious?” 

She raises her eyebrows in challenge and crunches into her pickle. It must be a new jar because it still tastes like a pickle; it’s good to cherish the little moments in life. 

“Wh— because — please don’t make me defend capitalism.” 

“Oho, Mister Business Major, thinks he’s too good —” 

“Stevie,” he says, laughing. She grins. “If I actually explain it to you, will you promise to listen and not heckle me the entire time?” 

“It’s like you don’t know me at all,” she says disappointedly. 

“You’re such an asshole.” She shrugs. It’s true. “Besides, you’re part of the machinery now.” She freezes mid-bite. “You have a savings account. You have a 401k. You buy things new. You’re part of a group that _franchises motels_. You… are… a capitalist.” 

“You take that back.” 

“How many suits do you own now?” 

“No, don’t,” she moans, covering her eyes. “I don’t want to think about it. Let me have my delusions.” 

“Face it, you’re about six months away from wearing a button-down shirt every day.” 

“You’re _mean_ ," she says, but her voice doesn't have the edge to it that she meant it to. 

“Hey,” he says, and his voice has gone soft in a way that has her shoulders tensing. “Are you okay?” 

“Why wouldn’t I be? The fanged drool-dripped jaws of capitalism come for all of us.” 

“You miss David too.” 

“Ugh, no.” 

“He’s your best friend, Stevie,” he says gently. “He left very suddenly to fly far away to deal with something scary and you’ve been in each other’s lives every single day for years.” 

“Against my will." 

“If he were here, he’d have eaten the rest of your chips.” He nods at her plate, where she still has half of her chips left. Whatever; she’s just not that hungry. 

“If he were here, I’d have to fight him for the ones I’ve already eaten.” 

“Can you even imagine what your life would be like without having to fight him for your chips every day?” he asks, and his tone is joking, but her lungs shudder and she licks her lips, wondering if she’s really going to say this. 

“Did David ever tell you that he took me to look at your house before he bought it?” 

Patrick shakes his head, but he has that small smile on his face; she loves him for it. She loves them for not placing weight on who has more secrets with her. It probably evens out, in the end; Patrick had told her about the rings and his plans to put an offer in on the house; she has all of David’s small stuff, and this. 

“We sat on the hood of my car and he told me about New York and we stared at the house for a long time. I know he told you he wanted to move with everyone.” She looks up, and Patrick nods. “He wanted to go back to New York for the wrong reasons, and I think he knew that, but I — I still worry that he’ll find a right one.” 

One corner of Patrick’s mouth turns down; it’s the face he makes when he agrees but doesn’t want to say so. 

“He would move anywhere for you,” she says, and her eyes flash hot with a sudden wetness that she blinks back. 

“I think he might’ve moved for you,” Patrick says quietly, without bitterness. He touches the back of her hand with two fingertips until she looks at him. “He loves you. He’s loved you longer than me.” 

She feels her face collapse with some disgusting emotion before she reins it in. “You’re his husband,” she rebuts, and her voice is embarrassingly thick, trying not to think about the blip in time when David had been hers. Even when they weren't sleeping together, he was her person and she was his. 

“I would’ve moved with him," Patrick says easily. He doesn’t blink, even when she furrows her brow and pulls back. 

“You’re saying that if I’d moved to New York, and David wanted to move with me, you both would’ve moved to New York. With me.” 

He nods. “That’s the gist of it.” 

“What the fuck, Patrick.” 

“What, you’re surprised?” he asks with a small laugh. “Stevie, that’s almost exactly what happened.” 

“Yeah, except I didn’t move to New York.” 

“I know. Neither did we.” 

She sputters a little, looking at him and away, and again, until his steady infuriating smile pulls her still. 

“Well, what if I had to move to New York now?” 

“Why, are you planning on it?” 

“No, but.” 

“Ah, hypothetically.” He tilts his head and scrunches his chin as he thinks. 

God, he’s so _earnest_ all the time; she half wishes he’d just give her shit and leave the sincerity alone. She knows, though, that there’s a reason she’s talking about this with him, that she hasn’t discussed it with David since that day at the house. 

In her head, the New York that she moves to always has David in it; she doesn’t want to hear that it would be any different. She doesn’t want to have to relive the conversation in which David told her she made things “survivable” but that he was leaving her to be alone anyway. 

“I think,” he says slowly, “it would be different, now, because we have a mortgage.” 

Her heart sinks as if down into dark water, but of course it would be different. They’re _married_ now; their lives have already begun diverging from hers. She’s already alone. 

“We’d want to talk about how long you’re planning on staying in New York, and if you’re envisioning moving around after that or coming back. In terms of the house or the store, we might not want to move unless it’s a long-term thing, although I don’t think it would be a hard sell to David to see if we can set up a branch in New York. We can rent out the house if we’re moving back, or sell it down the line, I guess, although I’d really rather not do that anytime soon.” 

“So, no.” 

“So it would be a conversation that we’d have. If I knew the answer now, it wouldn’t be a conversation,” he adds, smiling gently. “We’re not going to abandon you, though.” 

“Mm.” 

“Stevie. You can’t get rid of us that easily. You want to take a trip by yourself? Surprise! We’re staying in the next room. You want to join a baseball league to have one hobby for yourself? Ha, I’m on the other team trash-talking you. You want to go see a movie without David mocking it under his breath next to you? Too bad; he’s right there, eating your popcorn.” 

“Fuck off.” 

He grins, smarmy dickhead, and picks up his phone. 

“What will annoy him the most, do you think?” 

Her smile is slow to come but it’s too wild when it does burst through; she has to cover it with her hand. 

She slides out of her side of the booth and into Patrick’s, shoving herself in close to him, and poses with the cheesiest smile she can muster aimed at Patrick. He’s enough of an asshole to get it and he pulls a sappy look for the camera. 

David & Patrick  
  
**Today** 8:24 AM [IMG_315]  
Mission accomplished  
_Mission accomplished_ , she captions it.  **Today** 3:11 PM Patrick  
[IMG_601]  
If you miss your flight we’re moving in together! You can have the couch xoxoxoxo  
David  
My mother is currently forcing me to watch the 1976 A Star is Born and agree with her SCENE BY SCENE that she would’ve done a better job than Barbra or “that Madame Gaga chanteuse"  
She’s bringing the NURSES in on this  
You ASSHOLES  
_If you miss your flight we’re moving in together! You can have the couch xoxoxoxoxoxoxo_ To her great surprise, the chat buzzes immediately with David’s response: _My mother is currently forcing me to watch the 1976 A Star is Born and agree with her scene-by-scene that she would’ve done a better job than Barbra or “that Madame Gaga chanteuse.” She’s bringing the NURSES in on this._ _You ASSHOLES._

Stevie snorts into her sleeve and she feels Patrick’s shoulder shaking. She elbows him. 

“You’re related to her now, you know. She’s your mother-in-law.” 

“I know,” he says, the sappy look back on his face. 

“Gross.” 

“It’s the brain damage,” he says agreeably. 

He nudges her out of the booth and after she drops him back off at the Apothecary, her phone buzzes with his nauseating response to David in the group chat. 

David & Patrick  
  
**Today** 3:11 PM Patrick  
[IMG_601]  
If you miss your flight we’re moving in together! You can have the couch xoxoxoxo  
David  
My mother is currently forcing me to watch the 1976 A Star is Born and agree with her SCENE BY SCENE that she would’ve done a better job than Barbra or “that Madame Gaga chanteuse"  
She’s bringing the NURSES in on this  
You ASSHOLES  
**Today** 3:20 PM Patrick  
I love you and I’m proud of you and I miss you and I LOVE you. Soft as an easy chair, fresh as the morning air.  
  
_I love you and I’m proud of you and I miss you and I LOVE you. Soft as an easy chair, fresh as the morning air._ She sends them a row of barfing emojis.

Around six, Patrick shows up at the motel as she’s fiddling with the stupid software again. She actually wants to figure this out on her own. She has to try, at least. It doesn’t _matter_ except that it does, in proving to herself that she’s good enough for this, that she’s capable of doing this job herself. 

While she’s trying to concentrate, Patrick comes in and stands there staring at the ancient leaflets advertising three of Ray's old businesses and a corn maze she vaguely remembers from seven or eight years ago on the desk, with his hands shoved into his pockets up to his wrists, awkward and clearly wanting to ask her something but not wanting to bother her. 

“What?” she asks finally, annoyed. 

“Nothing,” he says quickly. “Um. I’ve already deep-cleaned the Apothecary so I was wondering if there was anything you need help with?” 

“Like what?” 

“Like… changing sheets? I can do that.” 

“You want to change dirty motel sheets?” 

“Or something. Whatever.” 

She sighs and exits the program, aware that she's not going to make any more progress on it tonight. 

“Come on,” she says, grabbing her bag. 

“Oh, no, I — I didn’t want to pull you away from work.” 

“Well, you’re not making me chicken piccata here. The only cooking appliance we have is the microwave, and Roland tried to use it to hard-boil an egg last week.” 

“Did it work?” Patrick asks, following her to his car. 

“Of course not.” It had exploded. There are still bits of superheated egg stuck to the sides that she just gave up trying to clean off. 

“Wait, why am I making you chicken piccata?” 

“I’m not paying for another one of your meals today.” 

“Stevie, I paid for breakfast and lunch,” Patrick says, frowning, but he gets into his car without complaint and lets her fuck with their radio presets. 

“Emotionally. I paid emotionally.” 

“So chicken piccata is payback for making you feel things?” 

“Exactly.” 

“I guess I can afford that. In the future, though, I’d prefer to negotiate our terms ahead of time.” 

She punches his arm and he laughs. 

In stark contrast to how Stevie tends to skid into their driveway because she always forgets how quickly the turn comes after the train tracks, Patrick eases in smoothly. 

She tries to picture it: at the end of a long day at the store, Patrick drives them home with David lounging in the passenger seat, and they talk about what to make for dinner or whose turn it is to do the dishes or the vendor appointments they have coming up. 

This is their _life_ ; they have a routine that Patrick loses without David there; they have a home, a place that’s just theirs permanently, more so than the dingy little apartment she’s lived out of for a decade that she’s still technically not allowed to make cosmetic changes to, although at this point she suspects her security deposit is long gone. 

She can barge into their house when she’s panicking about her new job or when she wants to eat their food or drink their wine, but ultimately she’s just a guest here. 

It’s a weird turn, she thinks as she follows Patrick to the front door, from how the Roses were guests in her space for years. 

She throws her bag in its usual spot under the hall table and Patrick goes to the kitchen without bothering to check that she’s following. Okay, so she’s not a _formal_ guest. 

It’s still kind of bizarre to her that they’re adults with a house; like real, normal people, they have framed photos hung in the entryway, mostly from the wedding. There’s also one of her and Patrick pulling faces at the camera that they put up as a joke, to see how long it would take David to snap and replace it with something that he approves of, but it’s still up. She loves it. 

There’s a clatter from the kitchen and muffled cursing and she gives their many beaming faces one last look before going to deal with whatever Patrick's done now. 

“Are you dead?” she calls. “I think at the bare minimum David expects me to keep you alive until he gets back.” 

“Not dead,” he answers, dejected, when she gets to the kitchen. There’s a pan with oil and butter off-center on a burner and Patrick’s sullenly holding his hand under the water faucet. “I always forget that the handle of that one gets hot.” 

“Seems like a painful mistake to forget.” She peers over his shoulder; his palm is a little red, but not blistered or anything. She suspects it’s the shock of it more than the pain that’s bothering him. 

“I guess David usually makes me use potholders.” 

“He knows what a potholder is?” 

“He picks out the one that goes with my outfit, or his, or his mood; I don’t know. He gives it to me and I use it.” He sighs and turns off the water and that stupid emotion comes up again; she aches for him. She's also selfishly glad, in a way, to not be the one falling apart without David. She doesn't know if she could stand _needing_ someone like this. 

“Okay, well, what’s his least favorite?” 

Patrick pulls open a drawer and Stevie rifles through them. They're mostly monochrome, of course, but she spies some color buried at the bottom of the drawer. 

“How many of these do you have? Oh my god.” She pulls out one with beaming Ray’s face on it, photoshopped onto a volcano and amidst a colony of penguins. She has a _mighty_ need to see David's reactions to these, and wishes she'd had the foresight to order a dozen of them for her wedding gift. Maybe she can get Ray to do something for his birthday. “These are amazing.” 

“Yeah, we got a lot of promotional wedding gifts from Ray.” 

She uses the volcano potholder to center the pan on the burner like it should be and then hands its antarctic mate to Patrick, who gamely puts it on. 

“Here, high-five me,” she says. 

“Stevie,” he says, fake-shocked. “I thought you weren’t that kind of girl.” 

“Shut up and help me mock David.” 

He grins and high-fives her, holding the pose for the photo. She can’t get a good angle because her arms are too short, so she hands him her phone to take the picture. It’s great: the camera’s algorithm pulls Ray’s faces perfectly into focus. 

David & Patrick  
  
**Today** 3:20 PM Patrick  
I love you and I’m proud of you and I miss you and I LOVE you. Soft as an easy chair, fresh as the morning air.  
  
**Today** 7:01 PM [IMG_316]  
Can’t wait to tell the good people at Vogue that David Rose has all the chicest decor!  
She sends it to the group chat with _Can’t wait to tell the good people at Vogue that David Rose has all the chicest decor!_

He doesn’t respond, which she hopes means that he’s on the plane and not, like, dead in a ditch somewhere in the English countryside. 

Patrick keeps checking his phone for a reply, so she does her best to nag him into cooking her dinner, then eating dinner, then doing all the dishes while she sits on the counter and supervises. 

She’s not really looking forward to going home to her messy apartment, and Patrick isn’t hinting at her to leave, so she meanders to the living room while he’s wiping down the kitchen and takes her spot on the couch. 

Their television has nearly every channel known to man because Patrick wants his sports and David wants his trashy TV and to get all of it they have to pay for a bunch of different cable packages, which means that she doesn't bother paying for her own and for any kind of televised event she ends up at their house. She still has fond memories of the last Oscars, which had David yelling and throwing popcorn while she made nonchalant comments about shitty movies that should have won instead. 

She digs her hand in between the cushions and fishes out the remote — how it _always_ ends up there, she’ll never know — and channel-hops until she lands on Jeopardy. Patrick joins her in time to witness her triumphantly answer “What is an ogre?” for “A four-letter monster that eats humans” and drops a pint of the good ice cream and a spoon into her lap. 

“Christ, that’s cold,” she hisses, hunching her back. 

“You’re welcome,” he says blithely, shoving her feet off the couch so he can sit down next to her. 

“David will kill us for eating his ice cream.” 

He just shrugs and says, “I’ll buy him more.” 

She frowns, concentrating on digging out a chunk of cookie dough, and thinks about that. _She_ doesn't dream about being in a relationship with David, not anymore, but Patrick's amazing assholery often distracts her from the fact that unlike her he will do almost anything for David, including keeping him in the ice cream to which he's become accustomed without complaint. She's never been selfless enough to try to be that person, and she thinks that maybe she's okay with that. 

She digs her elbow into his side to pull his attention away from his phone with its lack of updates from David, whose phone is undoubtedly in airplane mode at this point. 

“I’m going to have to start traveling for work soon,” she says. “Are you going to miss me this much when I’m gone?” 

“You might have David stowing away in your car.” 

She rolls her eyes. “Obviously, if I’m going somewhere with a Japanese garden. But I meant you, doofus.” 

“Of course, Stevie,” he says, his faint eyebrows rising with surprise. “I know you were David’s best friend first, but you’re mine, too.” 

“Okay, I regret bringing it up.” 

“Do you think you could send us postcards from everywhere?” 

“Not if you’re going to hang them up in the Apothecary like some creepy stalker.” His eyes light up and she groans. “That wasn’t a suggestion!” 

“That’s a _great_ idea. Hey, and cross-marketing, too!” 

“Horrible. You are a horrible person.” 

He slings his arm across the back of the couch and she leans into his side, pulling her feet up under her. 

“Do you want me to take a look at whatever program you were having trouble with?” he asks. “I was going to wait to bring it up until you asked me, but David said you wouldn’t at the cost of your own life, so I figured I might as well offer.” 

“I hate him.” 

“So yes? I don’t mind.” 

She crunches on a chocolate chip as she tries to get the words right in her head. “I want to figure it out myself,” she says slowly. “I want to know that I can.” 

“I get that,” he says, surprising her. 

“You do?” 

“Remind me what I said when you asked how I was going to propose to David.” 

She smiles slowly as she thinks back to that conversation; he was so nervous that she became slightly worried that he’d accidentally killed someone, and then he dropped the ring box on the floor. 

“You said that I wasn’t going to trick you into telling me because you wanted to do it yourself.” 

“See? Peas in a pod.” 

He bumps his shoulder against hers and she wriggles down to rest her head on his shoulder. 

She’s tired; she didn’t sleep well. Whatever. 

“Just let me know if you want me to —” 

“I will.” 

He checks his phone, puts it down on his thigh, then checks it again, over and over. 

“I will shove that thing down your throat.” 

He groans. “I know. I hate me too. His flight doesn’t land for another six hours, but I can’t stop.” 

“Okay. How about this: what if David and I had still been dating when you got here?” she asks, her head still on his shoulder. It’s a comfortable shoulder. 

“I would’ve jousted you for his hand,” Patrick says immediately. She whacks his chest with the back of her hand and he laughs. “I don’t know. I probably still would’ve been friends with you both and then cried over him at night.” 

“He was so gone over you, like, immediately. ‘Oh Stevie,’ he said, ‘he’s so handsome and practical in his blue button-up shirts.’” Patrick’s chest shakes with laughter. “‘Oh Stevie, he’s got such a good ass but he only wants me for my pretentious business! Whatever will I do?’” 

“He did not say that.” 

“He said it in his heart.” 

“You can read his heart?” 

“Mm, unfortunately. It’s basically just lusting after your ass and Rick Owens consignment.” 

“Please tell me I at least rank higher than Rick Owens.” 

“Patrick. Come on. You know better than that.” 

Jeopardy ends and she flips through channels again until she lands on one of the bridal shows that she and David like to heckle. 

“You know, this is my TV,” Patrick says mildly. “Don’t I get to pick the next show?” 

“I just lost a ton of respect for you.” 

“What? Why?” 

“Of _course_ I get control of the remote. I’m your _guest_.” 

“Guests aren’t normally so bossy. Also, you have your own drawer in the spare room.” 

“Come on, mock their dresses with me. Look, that one looks like she’s drowning in a down comforter.” 

“It feels mean.” 

She sighs and gives in, switching to a rerun of The Office so that he can commiserate with his brother-in-pining Jim Halpert. 

Patrick chuckles in all the right spots and checks his phone only during the commercials, which she feels is the best she can hope for at this point. 

She gets up to put the half-empty ice cream cartons away and when she gets back she’s not sure about sitting so close to him again deliberately, but he pulls her in with an arm around her shoulders and drapes a blanket over their laps. It looks homemade and she vaguely remembers David saying that Mrs. Brewer liked to knit things for them. 

She really wants one of these blankets. Also, she gets why David likes Patrick's shoulders so much; it's comfortable and steady, just like him. 

“Do you have a brother,” she mumbles. He smiles, his undereyes bruised with not enough sleep, and hugs her against his side. 

He finally passes out earlier than she'd expected around nine, slumped against her on the couch with an old Friends episode playing quietly on the TV, his gross nasally sleep-breaths puffing onto her shoulder. 

She fully intends to wake him up and shoo him to bed so that she can claim the whole couch for herself, but she's warm and cozy and she hasn't slept well, either. 

The next thing she knows, the front door opens and closes in her dream and she opens her eyes to see David framed in the living room doorway, smiling down at them, his face lit up in the flickering pale light of the television screen. She's not sure how long he's been standing there, but he seems to notice that she's awake and unfolds his arms. 

“Hey. How was he?” he whispers, crouching down in front of them. His eyes are puffy and his stubble is longer than he usually wears it, but looking at his face she feels relief like breathing after a long swim underwater. God, she loves him. 

“We survived,” she whispers back, lifting her head from Patrick’s shoulder, where she’d settled in her sleep. “How’s your mom?” 

“Torturing the nurses with her rendition of 'Shallow.' She’ll be fine. My dad’s there now, so.” 

“Good. Do you want to move your lump of a husband? My arm’s asleep.” 

David smiles, the bags under his eyes crinkling, and she wants to hug him tightly, to let him know just how much he’s loved, but she doesn’t move and his attention is on Patrick now. 

“Hey,” David says softly, cupping Patrick’s cheek, brushing a thumb under his eye until it flutters open. 

“Hi,” Patrick says blearily, blinking awake. “Missed you.” 

“I heard.” David’s hand traces down to Patrick’s shoulder and stays there, rubbing gently. “Want to come to bed?” He's sweet with Patrick in a way he isn't with anyone else and it seems to come so naturally that it hurts to think of the years he spent shoving that down, pretending he didn't love so hard. At least he has this now, she thinks. At least they have each other. 

“Okay,” Patrick mumbles. “Missed you,” he says again. 

“I know,” David says, hauling him up. Patrick leans on David, his head on David’s shoulder, and he closes his eyes like he’d be perfectly happy to sleep standing up like that. “Come on, sweetheart. Let’s let Stevie get some sleep.” 

Patrick mumbles something into David’s neck that she doesn’t catch, and David’s smile curves into his cheek. 

Just before he takes Patrick out of the room, he looks back at her with heart-full eyes and mouths, _Thank you_. 

She nods and tucks herself back into the couch, pulling the blanket up to her nose. She has to get up in a horrifyingly short amount of time to work the desk and then fight off both of these idiots who love her too much to let her figure out the stupid program herself, and she could go sleep in the spare room but she doesn’t want to move and the couch is warm and smells like them. 

**Author's Note:**

> CW: Patrick doesn't eat much when he's stressed. Stevie harangues him into eating meals.
> 
> "Soft as an easy chair, fresh as the morning air" comes from the theme song to the 1976 A Star is Born. The business questions Stevie uses on Patrick come from [this post](https://middyblue.tumblr.com/post/638316307319783424).
> 
> You can reblog [here](https://middyblue.tumblr.com/post/638313129287286784/you-got-me-and-i-get-you-middyblue) and find me at [middyblue](https://middyblue.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


End file.
